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Shrugs his broad shoulders. Those are swimmer's shoulders. He has a swimmer's everything. I've seen him in a Speedo enough times to know—the guys practice a few lanes over.
He's more than a hot body too. He's handsome. Charming. Funny.
Evil.
My head knows better. My head despises the cocky playboy. For calling me sunshine. For taking nothing seriously. For throwing people away.
But my heart?
My body?
It's impossible to get over a guy you see shirtless five times a week. That's a scientific fact.
He laughs at Judy's joke. Shoots her that trademarked Dean million-dollar smile as he blows her a kiss.
She paws at his chest.
He shrugs maybe, maybe not.
He's indifferent. Effortless. Aloof.
He has so much female attention he could give or take a knockout in fuck me heels.
That doesn't give a nobody in combat boots much of a chance.
I force myself to look away.
Watch Alan—this is his place—pound his red solo cup. He finishes. Crushes the cup. Watches it fall onto the pristine white carpet.
Drops of brown liquor catch on the fibers.
He shrugs like he doesn't care, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. The jocks around him laugh. Pound their drinks. Whisper some secret.
There are a dozen people here. Half in that circle. The rest on the couch or in the airy, stainless steel kitchen.
Everyone here is casual. Comfortable. Used to parties. To money. To cheap booze in plastic cups.
I…
This is way out of my comfort zone.
My gaze shifts back to Dean.
His eyes lock with mine. He raises his glass. Smiles.
My combat boots tap together. My hands go to my tank top. I play with its edge. Try to figure out what the hell that means.
Dean and I have shared two classes a day, every day, for the last three years.
He spends most of his free time teasing me.
Calling me sunshine.
Mocking how seriously I take art, math, and science.
Mocking my all black clothes, my thermos of tea, my tendency to gush about cartoons.
He turns to Alan. Whispers something.
